


Deadman

by sheriffbucky (pluckybucky)



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Suicidal Thoughts, Takes place after Red Dead 1, jack thinks hes about to die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-15 18:58:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17534411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluckybucky/pseuds/sheriffbucky
Summary: Jack laughs pathetically, “Too late for that, I’m just as dead as you.”





	Deadman

This is it. 

 

As Jack Marston slumps himself against the cliffside he cowers behind, clutching at the red staining his blue striped shirt, he knows this it is. He hears the muffled shouting coming from afar, hunting him like he’s an animal, and he knows this is it. He coughs, pathetic and dying, and he slides his eyes shut. He put up a fight, by God he fought, a one man army against the onslaught of hunters, a man with nothing else to lose. Family or friends, they’re words that hold no more personal meaning to the boy, like a black hole in his heart, leaving him a shell of wrath, a wolf against a blood red sky, and now, he’s tired. 

 

He lets out a groan, leaning his head back against the rock he sits against, brow furrowing. Jack’s going to die, die like a dog, die without notice, he’s going to die, and some part of him wishes it had come sooner, some part of him is okay with this, content with whatever meets him on the other side. He hugs himself close, from pain, or isolation, whatever it is, he clutches at the only thing he has left, a human, destroyed and torn by what the majority call civilized. He spits out the metal taste in his mouth, letting his body lean forward like a limp corpse. Footsteps drown his ears, all too loud and all to deaf, he doesn’t reach for the dirtied revolver by his side, nor does he attempt to get up. He breaths, through the nose, out the mouth, steady and thick, throat rasping like a sick bastard. Just like the men before him, he’s always known it would end up like this, no legacy, no heart, no mercy, just a weak dog with ribs peeking through thin skin, too pitiful to live, hunted by the wolves it idolized.

 

Through heavy eyelids, he takes a glance up at his savior, or killer, the figure shadowed by the star-empty night. He closes his eyes again, and slumps his head against his shoulder, a voice of gravel and cigarette smoke. 

 

“Son,” John chides, “Get up.”

 

Jack wheezes, eyes squeezing together tightly in pain. “Y’not real,” he mumbles. “Not real.” 

 

Jack can’t bring himself to look the dying dream in the eyes, because he knows it’s something fleeting, one last attempt to guilt him.

 

“You’re not dead yet, boy. Don’t you give up now.” John’s voice is tense, almost commanding, and Jack can imagine the glare he has, the patronizing glance of a father.

 

Jack laughs,  _ laughs,  _ pathetically, “Too late for that, I’m just as dead as you.”

 

He hears joints cracking softly, a faint thud against the red stained rocks underneath him. A hand lands on his shoulder, jolting through Jack as his eyes slide open softly, expression unchanging. 

 

“Stop.” Jack demands. 

 

“You can’t let them win, Jack,”

 

“Stop it.”

 

“You can’t let yourself die, Jack,”

 

“ _Stop it._ ” It’s more like begging, than a command now.

 

Jack flings his arm out, some attempt to scare it off, make it stop. His body limp, it follows his arm, allowing his body to slump to the side. He wails, enraged and grief-stricken. 

 

“Just stop, leave me alone.” He whines.

 

He hears shuffling, the sound of somebody sitting next to him. 

 

“Y’know I ain’t one to listen, let alone take commands.” 

 

There’s a serene silence between the father and the dying son, Jack’s painful wheezing being the only thing audible. 

 

“Why are you doing this?” Jack finally asks.

 

There’s a pause that makes Jack believe it has left. 

 

“Because I can’t let you throw your life away at 19, you crazy fool.” 

 

“What’s it to you?” Jack croaks, “You’re dead.”

 

“And you think I died for no reason?” 

 

Jack chuckles like a madman, “Sure seemed that way. I had to bury you.” 

 

“You’re an idiot sometimes, boy.”

 

“What?” Jack grimaces.

 

“Throwin’ your life away for me ‘n Abigail, when we did all we could to make sure you lived.”

 

Jack opens his mouth, finding his voice to be caught in his throat. “I’m all alone. There isn’t a point. I ain’t got anything left.” 

 

He feels the gentlest flick against his hat, his father’s, and scrunches up his face. 

 

“I ain’t ever left you, boy. Like it or not, you’re stuck with me.”

 

Jack squeezes himself tighter, fists grabbing at the sleeves of his bloodstained jacket. Through the darkness, the moon serves as the only source of light, illuminating Jack’s face as he slowly opens his eyes fully, the back of his eyes throbbing. He wants to shut up, to go to sleep and wake up like this was just a fever dream. He hears a sharp inhale, and a deep exhale.

 

“I’m sorry.” John whispers, voice so quiet that Jack almost doesn’t catch it. 

 

“What?” Jack whimpers. 

 

“I ain’t ever was a good father to you. You were just a boy and I can’t stand knowin’ I hurt my son. I was an immature fool, Jack, still am, too scared to be a father.” 

 

Jack begins to breathe erratically, eyes stinging.

 

“I didn’t give you the childhood you deserved. Shoulda taken you and Abigail away when you were a baby, given you a normal life, but I didn’t.” 

 

Jack forcefully wipes his palm against his eyes, nostrils flared, silently sobbing like a child scared of the dark. 

 

“I took your chances of a happy life away, and I hate myself for it. I ain’t askin’ for forgiveness, but I couldn’t disappear without telling you I’m sorry.” 

 

The boy begins to truly sob, loud and ugly, a wail of pent up rage since he was a child, a release of his history, all the pain, the isolation, he lets it out in a pained, mess of a scream. In the darkness, an arm pulls him into a hug, and Jack instinctively attempts to pull away, but as he sobs, he can’t help but lean against his father’s shoulder, crying into his shoulder as he pounds a fist against John’s chest in anger, rage, and anguish. He hates his father, yet there was no one else he’d sacrifice everything for. His corpse of a father holds him, like he was a baby, letting him sob. 

 

“It was me,” Jack cries, “I shot Edgar Ross.” 

 

“It’s not your fault, son,” John laments. “They gave you a reason to fight, and you did.”

 

Jack feels a hand against his back, giving him a comforting pat. 

 

“They took enough from you,” John says, “You can’t let them take your will to live.”

 

Jack pulls away, a sharp pain in his ribs as he leans himself back against the rock formation behind him, head against his father’s shoulder. He sniffles. 

 

“You’re going to be gone, aren’t you?” He asks weakly.

 

A pause causes Jack to assume it’s a yes. He hears the clearing of a throat.

 

“Why don’t you tell me a story?” 

 

Jack makes a noise, a pained grunt.

 

“I’m sure you’ve got a number of stupid tales in that noggin of yours.” 

 

Jack nearly laughs, an ugly snort. “What kind of story do you want?”

 

He can feel his father’s shoulder rise and fall in a shrug. “It don’t matter to me.”

 

“Okay, pa.” 

 

Jack tells a story, through wheezes and grunts, through bloodstained hands, he tells a story. A heroic cowboy who does all he can to make the world a better place, who saves the day by defeating the man who terrorizes a small town in the middle of nowhere. He denies any reward, because he knows that money means nothing in the eyes of justice, and Jack smiles when the cowboy rides off into the sunset, to continue his adventures forevermore. 

 

Jack wakes up in the dirt, a sniffling against his face. His crusted shut eyelids force themselves apart, and he looks up at the buck standing over him, high and mighty, the rising sun shining behind it, it’s mighty antlers as developed as a century-old tree. When Jack forces himself up, the deer doesn’t run, and when Jack runs his hands against his face, scratching off the dried blood smeared on his cheek, he stares at the deer in the eyes, and feels something he can’t describe. Something in its gaze, a beckon for him to rise up, and as his stained hands reach for the rock wall, calluses scratching against the rough gravel, he forces himself to get onto his feet, a newfound strength in him. 

 

He reaches his hand out to the deer, allowing it to sniff his hand. It stares at him more before growing uneasy, and running off. Left there alone, he looks down at the ground and sees his hat, a keepsake closer to him than anything else, and as he reaches down to pick it up, he recalls the dream, or ghost, or whatever it was. 

 

He realizes it’s okay to say it’s John, and not some fleeting vision from a dying man. 

 

Jack limps, hand around his gut, but he’s alive. The men pursuing him in the dead of night have disappeared, and Jack is breathing with a deadman’s lungs. He finds it in him to walk forward, hat shading his eyes from the blinding sun rising over the trees down below. 

 

“ _Stay alive,_ ” He imagines his father saying to him, “ _Stay alive._ ”


End file.
